Protecting Home
by Kaira101
Summary: (Sequel to Gone From Home) - A lot can happen in the span of decades. Friends leave and die. Nords change. War is brewing and allegiances are tested with steel and magic. Let's hope Stormcloak can finally gain his footing before the earth crumbles beneath him. Rated T for violence and mature themes. Not recommended for children.
1. Prologue

**Protecting Home**

**Sequel to Gone From Home**

**An Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Fan Fiction**

* * *

_"Ata*, we don't want you to leave."_

_ The Altmer smiled unhappily, bending down to his knees to stare at his twins at eye-level. His bright eyes shimmered with sadness and an unspoken agony, but his lips curved into a soft smirk. He placed his hands on either of the boys' shoulders, squeezing tightly."I know. I won't be gone long. A month is all I require." His lips curved into a reassuring grin, and he flickered his eyes upward. The silent she-elf watched above them, face impassive but amber gaze cold and withering. When her husband looked up at her meaningfully, her jaw tightened and she hardened her face, turning away._

_Mithllon's smile wavered. He turned back to his sons, cupping the backs of their necks with affection. "When I return, I hope to find the house _**unscathed** and **unscorched**."

_The two Altmer failed to hide their mischievous smirks, glancing at each other to share a pleasantly destructive memory between themselves. In Summerset Isles, the two Altmer were renowned for their destructive capabilities; several crumbled, smoldering statues of Auri-El bared witness to that. The bills Mithllon had to pay..._

_Their father's eyebrows climbed. Sensing danger, the twins hastily bobbed their heads._

_ "Yes, Ata," Coredalf mumbled, Ganllon soon to join the answer with a reluctant huff. Mithllon regarded them with doubt, lips tightening into a thin line. Noticing his expression, the twins cried out in protest:_

_ "We won't burn anything down! We swear! 'No experiments whilst you're gone'." _

_ Mithllon's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he knew he would receive a no better promise. He straightened and shooed them away with a flick of his hand. The twins, tumbling over each other, squeezed out the door, repeating their promise several times as Mithllon watched their retreating backs. _

_They lied._

* * *

He hated Skyrim.

There was too much snow - the biting cold, enough wind to skin a mammoth, and the sheets of ice that blanketed the land. The cold gust tore at his lungs, chill clawing at his throat. Ice pelted his face, gnashing at exposed skin, and transforming his fingers to lifeless blue digits that screamed painfully as they were rubbed raw against the cowhide bridle. He shivered, his eyelids nearly sealed shut with frost. He smashed into the saddle with each broken gallop of Drastíll, breathing nearly as heavily as his horse. The blizzard roared around them, beating angrily at the trees and bushes. A sound not unlike thunder boomed from behind them.

Mithllon knew it was not.

They ran. And with all the chill of Skyrim, sweat still beaded from Mithllon's brow, the sound much like thunder - yet could never be far from - resounding from behind.

* * *

_ "You aren't coming back."_

_ Mithllon paused, hand outstretched to gather up his bags, but not fulfilling the task. He turned to eye the ember-eyed Altmer at the far end of the room, his own face growing impassive._

_ "Of course I will," he whispered softly. _

_A pitiful counter. Every High Elf knew he was not skilled in arguing with his wife._

_ Lorana's face grew stoney, her voice nearly hostile. "Against the Thalmor?" She uttered the name as if it were vinegar forced down her throat. But there was power in that word, and even the stubborn she-elf dared not tag an offensive label to such an organization. She sneered angrily at him, tone falling bitter. "Don't be a fool." _

_ Mithllon stared at the floorboards, face taut with tense emotions. His eyes danced everywhere but where his wife stood, scavenging through his mind to drovel some reasonable answer. He felt his forehead burn as Lorana watched him, his tongue going dry. Where was his usual wit? His normal cleverness always dissipated when Lorana stepped foot in a room. For a moment, he wished more to be in the Thalmor's presence than hers._

_ "I _will _return." Even to his own ears, the sentence sounded hollow._

_ In front of him, Lorana snorted in disdain, her shoes tapping against the floor. He felt a powerful, thump against his chest, and he groped with whatever his wife unceremoniously shoved into him. His fingers found the rough corners of his final packing bag, filled to the brim with dried Altmeri fruit._

_ "You're mad," Lorana hissed. For a moment, Mithllon thought he heard her voice crack over the rapping of her shoes as the door creaked open. _

_ He didn't spin around to face her. He didn't stop her from leaving. He regarded the pack in silence, lips thinning into a line. _

_ He resumed his packing._

"_I will return home," he repeated to himself._

_ He lied._

* * *

The open sea was a home away from home for Altmer. The churning of the waves, the cry of seagulls nesting, and the taste of salt on his tongue did wonders to ease the nerves. His hands ached to nestle themselves in the rough ropes of a fisherman's net, filled to the brim with glistening salmon that stubbornly flopped towards the water, swollen gills gasping for air. But he was a mere passenger on the boat, and although he was required to scrub the deck and haul the sails, the sailors did not offer him the privilege of fishing.

The deck was silent at night, the ship pitching and lolling above the winds and tides, each board groaning against each other. Mithllon draped himself against the stairs, fondling the wooden pipe in his hands, smoke billowing from his lips.

He never smoked. The Elders spoke of pipe users suffocating from their own blackened lungs; the written cases alone usually frightened the citizens of Summerset Isles from using such items.

But right now, Mithllon didn't care.

He disregarded the wisdom of _An Ati*, _instead relishing the scent of smoldering ginko* leaves an Orcish sailor sold him at the port, the drug entering his system, touching his tense nerves with a mother's caress. He was still lucid - barely - as he gazed at the canopy of stars above, pondering.

How was the little king, he wondered. That Nordic youth, with wide blue eyes filled with innocent mirth, was constantly on the Altmer's mind. He had led Ulfric home when he found him in Skyrim, face hot and swollen from crying, his leg wedged beneath a tree's gnarled root. A jarl's son was his title, and he had been kidnapped by a group of bandits prepared to call for a ransom before abandoning them in haste of escape. Their meeting was rough and unsteady, but Mithllon had formed a firm bond with the child on their journey. Ulfric resembled his twins too much to be ignored.

And then he left him. Like a frightened rabbit, fleeing from the Thalmor, he ran into the night.

Mithllon grimaced. He took a long draw from his pipe, longing for strong mead. Eventually, he left the deck and found some. It was a long night, with his bottle of ale, and a buzzing mind that refused to relinquish its thoughts.

He didn't remember getting drunk. He just remembered feeling better.

* * *

"_But Daddy, we have to find him!"_

_ Young Ulfric was in tears, snot, and bubbly spit. His face was red, eyes swollen, and lips trembling as dribble spilled out of one end. By Talos, he was a messy crier. The guards' faces twisted into disgust, and they looked anywhere but the child. Haren was tempted to mime the men, but his son practically clung to him. The liquid was soaking into his tunic, and already his skin felt wet and sticky. He turned to his wife._

Help_._

_ Ania rolled her eyes upward, perhaps pondering how long nails would hold her husband to the stone ceiling. Then she moved, prying Ulfric from his father, whipping excess mucus from his face as she cradled him. Haren's hands hovered over the dark spot on his shirt, wondering if he should try to swipe it off, then rightly deciding against it. _

_ "Ulfric," he began. "Altmer cannot be your friends. This 'Mithllon' tricks people." _

They all do.

_ Ulfric pulled away from his mother and, summoning up a grand Nordic stubbornness, glared at his father. _

_ "They're not all like that."_

_ Haren frowned, eyebrows arching dramatically. "Oh?"_

_ The child bobbed his head with self-renowned wisdom. "Mithllon told me that."_

_ "Of course he did."_

_ His face turned a brighter red, and his face twisted, threatening to burst into tears once more. "He _did_!"_

_ Haren threw his hands out in alarm, fearing another bout of the toddler's tantrums. Ania huffed quietly, eying the ceiling once more. _

_ "Ulfric," the Nordic lady cooed. "Not to worry. We're certain you speak of exactly what the elf told you." She paused and glanced at Haren._

_"Are we going to look for him?" Ulfric sniffed. _

_ Haren poised his mouth to answer, but Ania silenced him with a glare._

_ "Yes. We'll search for him," she responded in a sweet voice. "We'll find him, and you can see him again."_

_ She lied._

* * *

The air burned.

The land sweltered.

And yet the earth was still.

Fire, scarlet wraiths of death and agony dancing in the air, licked mercilessly at the remains of the skeletal house, its embers' ferocity lessened long ago but its hunger remaining un-sated. Plumes of smoke slithered from beneath the boards to bathe the sky in a dark, murky sludge, concealing the sun to force the land to bask in darkness. The flames crackled as they gnashed at the remains of a once elegant estate, its shimmering glass shattered and its smooth floor charred to a blackened pile of soot. The boards that had managed to remain upright groaned eerily, like a wan dog's last death cry. In the midst of the rubble lay a crumpled form, clothes and skin burned to a pitiful blackened coating, too charred to identify. The only remarkable feature was the pointed ears that prodded out of the body's head, and slivers of brown hair cascading around the ear, the only lucky survivors of the fire. The land was noiseless, the birds frightened from their perches to flee from the smoke-ridden air and animals too wary to go within a mile from the burning carcass of a home.

An elf wailed beside it, looking quite pitiful, crumpled in a tight ball. A mess of hair splayed over his face, smelling of soiled mead and pipe smoke. A white horse stood guard above him, ears flickering and hooves pacing restlessly, head swaying this way and that. It nickered and neighed, nudging at his master and breathing heavily. The elves-old, young, withered, or strong-watched silently, watching the "wretch" scream his throat raw. They did not mourn for him. They did not pity him. They stared impassively, waiting for the inevitable to come to the mer.

And it did.

The Thalmor-composed in their glossy armor and embroidered hoods-strolled elegantly through the crowd, the lesser elves complacently moving to make way for the wizards, some bowing their heads in submission. They watched as the group calmly passed the smoldering skeletal remains of the house, and towards the withered form. The horse was trouble, tossing his mane in a frothing rage, rearing his head and throwing out his hooves. A sudden mauve spark solved the problem, the horse spasming, jolting, screaming, before falling to the ground with a sickening thump.

The air smelled like scorched flesh. Several Altmer wrinkled their noses and cursed the horse for tarnishing the air.

The Thalmor seized the slumped figure at his arms, hauling him upward. The leader stood a distance away, as if he feared catching a sickly disease from the mer. He studied him, said a few words, and then the Thalmor left with him.

The next day, there was a paper posted on the doors of the Altmeri homes. It announced the that rebel leader, Mithllon Adal, was scheduled for a public execution by the morn.

It told the truth.

* * *

**I decided to rewrite this chapter because it didn't really catch my interest the last time I wrote it. **

**And now for a little lore. If you don't want to read about my odd obsession of how Bethesda created the vast world of Nirn, you can ignore the entirety of this. But I do want to say that a great deal of researching was done to form this story, and so if you want a "behind the scenes" look of how I wrote this, you can continue on.**

**1) Ata - "father" in Aleidoon. Aleidoon is the language of the Ayleids, the ancient elves before the storyline of the Elder Scrolls games begin. **

**2) An Ati - "the Elders" (very rough translation) in Aleidoon. "An" is "the", and "ati" is "elders". However, the wiki was a little confusing for using "the" article, and I was unsure whether to capitalize it, and put it either in front or behind "Ati".**

**3) I researched a little bit on the art of pipe smoking in the medieval times. They didn't offer an answer to any specific plant they used for "fuel" for the pipe, so I decided to search for a floral in the Elder Scrolls lore that wasn't poisonous, and pleasant in taste/smell. I discovered the "ginko leaf", which can be found all over Cyrodiil and along the banks of lakes and oceans in Hammerfell. It has a sweet taste to it, and really I found perfect to use, since I could logically assume that Mithllon bought it from a merchant in Hammerfell, which was where he made sail in order to reach Summerset Isles.**


	2. Chapter 1: Jagged Crown

**Protecting Home**

**An Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Fan Fiction**

**Sequel to "Gone From Home"**

**Chapter 1: Jagged Crown**

* * *

The great metal doors gave a shuddering groan as they swung open, clattering onto the stone walls and allowing the harsh wintry weather to rush inside the building. A strong breeze swept across the hall, sending papers scattering across the room and books falling to the ground. Servants yelped in alarm, scrambling to shield painstakingly stacked books from Skyrim's natural brutality. Most of their efforts ended in crushing defeat.

Someone cursed loudly and bellowed: "Close the bloody door!" The order was obliged as guards quickly rushed to close the iron door, heaving with great effort against the strength of the wind. Once the door finally shut, it released an echoing boom that shivered across the hall. The blizzard continued to rage outside, leaving the inside of the building to sound hollow and silent, besides the grumbling of the servants.

Galmar glared at the lad who strut inside, plucking a sheet of parchment from his person, only to ungracefully toss it to the side and fold his beefy arms over his chest. He watched as the young warrior crossed the room in long, confident strides, a boastful sneer on his lips, as he twirled the Jagged Crown on one finger.

"I have the Jagged Crown!" he unhelpfully announced, shaking snow from his armor and hair.

Galmar rose his eyebrows in mock surprise, nodding slowly. "So I see," he rumbled in his deep, bear-like growl. He glowered at the Nord in front of him, eyes burning with irritation.

The warrior remained uncowed, and his grin grew wider as he wagged the Jagged Crown in front of Galmar, almost condescendingly. "I tore through draugr and skeletons to get this bony hat," he said, and the housecarl rose his eyes to the Sovngarde. The _gall_ of this one.

"I think I deserve a reward," the boy added.

The Second-In-Command blinked, looking back at the young Nord in front of him. "Oh?" Galmar responded, displaying his own dark grin. He leaned closer to the boy, enough to allow his breath to swathe over him. He waited for a flash of uncomfortableness to cross the warrior's face before he plucked the Jagged Crown from his grasp and hissed, "How about I don't send your hide to Sovngarde after you did your _bloody job?_ Does that sound agreeable to you?"

The self-proclaimed Dragonborn shuffled back a step. Coughing loudly-perhaps to regain his composure-he thrust his chest out proudly, but not as much as it had once been. A small miracle, that.

"I think that would be agreeable," he said after a moment, still sounding as unfortunately cocky as he usually did.

Galmar's eyebrows climbed. "Really? I think so too."

He thought he heard a snicker slither its way out of a dutiful guard standing watch near the entrance of the hall. When he glared in that direction, the sound ceased, and a group of Nords stiffened their faces considerably. He eyed them for a moment longer before scowling at the boy in front of him.

"Now shove off," he snarled rather irritably. The Nord responded with rebellious, nearly pompous, slowness, sticking his chin out far too hautily for his tastes.

Now, more rational creatures would have ignored the definitive self-importance this lone boy always expressed in public. Most would leave him be, scoffing and rolling their eyes as he passed by. But because Galmar was not as most people expected, least of all rational, and also because the knotted chin stuck out in the air like a bare branch in the breeze, nearly invitingly, he did the only pleasurable thing that crossed his mind.

Galmar's knuckles smarted when he hit the boy, but the Dragonborn's expression did more than enough to pay for any pain he felt. The boy's eyes bulged widely, his snide expression transforming into ugly horror as a solid fist connected with his jaw. The Dragonborn's head snapped up, and his body followed with it. He didn't even have time to yelp before he tumbled to the ground with the grace of a drunken hound, his armor clattering noisily as it connected with the stone floor.

It almost felt as good as punching an Altmer.

Almost, but not quite.

For a moment, silence followed, heads turning to watch the spectacle. Then…

Nords were loud, everyone knew, but the laughter that exploded into the hall was _exceptionally _cacophonous, even to Galmar, which was a feat of itself. Practically every Stormcloak who served under Galmar had seen the Second-In-Command occasionally beat less respectable Nords into submission, and each occasion offered its own amused chuckles. There was simply something especially pleasant watching the middle-aged warrior throw the _almighty Dragonborn_ onto his pompous backside.

Jubilating, really. The hall shook with guffaw.

Galmar would have smiled, but the sudden appearance of Ulfric Stormcloak sobered him immediately. His leader exited the War Room, looking both noble and rugged in his fur-lined robes, and his proud face was creased with determination. His eyes wandered around the hall curiously, glancing first at Galmar then at the backside of the Dragonborn, who struggled to peel himself from the ground. The edge of Ulfric's lips twitched-his equivalent to a smile-before his two mountains of eyebrows shifted upwards.

_Your handiwork? _they translated.

Galmar could have shrugged and muttered that he wasn't proud to produce such a melon-sized bruise on the boy's face, but he didn't want to outright lie to Ulfric. Instead, he faced the boy, who was now upright, and cast him a steely glare. This time, the boy didn't bother to puff out his chest; he was too busy cradling his jaw. Once he looked into Galmar's eyes, the message was easily passed to him, and the Dragonborn hurriedly fled the hall, casting venomous looks to those who chuckled albeit too loudly. Once the doors swung shut, and the curses of the servants subsidised once more as they clawed for papers, the Nords still present noticed Ulfric beside Galmar, and swiftly swallowed down their chuckles, returning back to their duties.

Galmar, feeling remarkably cheerful, turned to Ulfric with a completely neutral expression. Ulfric snorted and motioned Galmar into the War Room with a jerk of his head.

"Careful, Galmar," he rumbled deeply. Galmar could almost feel the Thu'um rumble with him. "More episodes like that and we may not have a Dragonborn anymore."

"A pity that would be," the housecarl muttered. "I am certain all of Skyrim would mourn his loss."

Ulfric did not smile; instead, he grunted, "But at least he gets the job done when it benefits him." He arched his brow in a way to pose a question that needn't be spoken. Galmar, remembering the bones in his hand, quickly passed the Jagged Crown to Ulfric.

"Unscathed," he answered. Ulfric didn't need Galmar to say it, as he examined it carefully, but the Second-in-Command wanted to assure himself more than anyone that the Dragonborn hadn't tampered with it. There would be no reason for him to, but Galmar disliked the boy enough to think lowly of him. Maybe it was his ever-present insolence that gave Galmar an ill taste in his mouth.

"Yes," Ulfric. "Good. This is very good." Ulfric looked relieved, a great weight lifted from his shoulders. He had stressed to Galmar how important it was for the Imperials never to possess the Crown. It was vital. Of course, it was Galmar who suggested they retrieve it, but the details were irrelevant.

"Are you going to wear it?" Galmar inquired as the leader of the Stormcloaks fondled the headpiece thoughtfully.

Ulfric nodded. "Yes," he muttered. He did not don it. Perhaps it was respect for those kings of old that wore it. Or it was hesitation, a small stumbling point in Ulfric's own sight of his leadership-

-No, no, it was definitely respect. Ulfric Stormcloak was too old for self-doubt.

Regardless, Ulfric pushed the crown aside for the moment, instead studying the table-sized map of Skyrim before them. He leaned over the edge, his thick hands curling over the corners of the table, fingers drumming at the wood. "We need to move forward soon," he grumbled to Galmar, who rose his eyes to the ceiling.

The man never relished his victories, no matter how large they were. It grew occasionally annoying. He secretly longed to join his brothers in the mead halls, guzzling… well, mead after a harsh, but victorious battle (maybe a few barrels more in the face of defeat). The Nord felt very depraved of his drink. Which was the same likeness of a fish deprived of air, but again, details; completely irrelevant.

"Of course," Galmar answered after a length, banishing the thought of ale for a while longer. He did that a lot now.

He tapped at the map. "I should say Whiterun is a massive priority" He really didn't need to say why. All of Skyrim knew that Whiterun was one of the major trade links from within the province, besides Riverwood. Ulfric nodded, raising one hand to stroke his beard thoughtfully.

"Yes, that would be most prefered."

"Really? I think so too."

The way Ulfric stared at him, he could tell he was not as amused as Galmar.

* * *

**It's been a very long time since I've posted anything for "Protecting Home", and I do apologize for that. I've been pouring all of my energy into writing a personal novelty, and have reserved little for writing this story. However, now I've exhausted my inspiration for my novelty, and have only this story to gather my meager ideas together and fumble them along in my tiny midget arms to make them work. Ah, 'tis a joke. I know what I'm doing. The question is: do I still have the sanity to complete it? We will see, I suppose. **


	3. Chapter 2: Mortal Disgrace

**Protecting Home**

**A Fan Fiction for Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim**

**Sequel to Gone From Home**

**Chapter 2: Mortal Disgrace**

* * *

The Dragonborn found himself ambling along the trail towards Riverwood.

'Amble' perhaps was a litotes unagreeable towards the situation. His gait was more of a heavy canter, one armor-clad boot tromping in front of the other, the snow groaning against the abusive behavior of one fiercely irate youth, ice billowing to his knees. His face was the color a Nord possessed after an ample night of drinking, his eyes hot, eyebrows crinkled, and a glower darker than the depths of the Dwemeri caves. He grumbled to himself, face ducked below his helmet to hide from the Divines themselves in fear that his humiliation would bleed through.

A Nord's pride took long to simmer-perhaps the entire day's march to Riverwood.

Galmar was renowned for his mere title as housecarl-an epithet of honor itself-aside to his temperament and attitude. "Stone-Fist" the recruits named him; Erak had heard it whispered amongst the Stormcloaks, either grins or dark scowls touching their lips. Erak had failed to remember it at the time he spoke to Galmar.

His fingers caressed the swollen lump at the front of his jaw, ire growing hot. Toppling from Galmar's blow alone had been demeaning-the guards' guffaws still hackled at his ears-but to fall in front of Ulfric Stormcloak!

His face grew a darker shade of red. Erak contemplated screaming. But a warrior was he, and Dragonborn at that-Dragonborns kept their composure, of course; he settled on biting on his clenched fist instead and hissing in fury.

He discovered a hatred for Galmar that he never thought he harbored before. It was small-more of a 'severe dislike', really-and meager, but Erak housed it all-the-same. Careering onwards toward Riverwood, he grumbled oaths. Windhelm shrunk behind the snow-clad mountains, the harsh Skyrim wind beating at his back, and the dark curtain of clouds looming over him as if Kynareth herself mocked him.

A howl flitted into his ears, echoing along the cobblestone road. Dark figures swam obscurely in the thundering wind, tossing up sheets of snow and billowing in the air. Their fangs glistened, eyes gleaming from their furry crowns as they bent over their paws to watch Erak. From their maw drooled blood, the half devoured goat lied discarded yards away, ice curling along its horns and glossed eyes. The wolves seemed thin, and they gazed at Erak in a familiar way.

Mayhap it was sheer coincidence or a blessing from Talos himself. Erak cared little. He discerned something to stab, and he found ill reason to refuse the opportunity.

Erak's fingers curled themselves around the leather-bound shaft of his axe. He tasted the Thu'um in his throat, his neck prickling, gait changing to a hot career.

The pack faced him. Their chest bulged and they snapped their heads savagely as their jaws released their bays. Hunger gleemed in their eyes.

They gave no warning. At one moment they stood. At the next they charged.

Erak was all too happy to introduce them to his blade.

* * *

"They have it!"

The door whined open, shuddering on its hinges and clattering against the stone wall as it clashed with it. Guards jolted in alarm, seizing their swords, drawn halfway from their scabbard. Legate Rikke tore in, armor rattling against each plate as her chest heaved with exertion. Nearly stumbling into the war table, the woman skid to a halt, breath coming in unsteady heaves. The guards sheathed their weapons at mention of no imminent threat, returning to their posts and vainly masking their interest. Tullius stood at the edge of the war table, fingers still clasped around its edges. Rikke met his gaze.

"The Stormcloaks have the Jagged Crown, sir." Her voice quivered in nigh rage. Behind her, the sound of the guards shuffling flittered at her ears.

The aged general straightened slowly, as if Solitude itself would rain down in fire toward any hasteful movements. His face was stoic.

"I had hoped not but..." he spoke, a mere whisper on his tongue. He remained where he stood, eyes scanning nothing. "The Dragonborn was there." It was not a question.

Regardless, Rikke felt her head bob in affirmation, inclined to answer.

"Then of course they have the Jagged Crown."

The harsh quip bit at her pride. The General undoubtedly meant not to carp her-he was a reasonable and forgiving man who found little wisdom in chastising sullen soldiers-but Rikke's imagination addled with her officer's reaction. He sounded accusatory, disappointed. The Dragonborn was a legend amongst them all and, petty insults or not, the Imperial soldiers' confidence had dulled at the sound of his Thu'um. Never had the Dragonborn exposed his allegiance to any party, fellow Nord as he was. Then he was found in the battle, axe cleaving their friends, their allies. They balked at the man, whose face was shrouded in the shadows, the horns of his helm glistening in the torches' glow, a sight worse than the daedra themselves. Their fear had caused the Dragonborn to obtain the Jagged Crown. And Rikke, their commanding officer, had allowed it.

She stared at her general, miming his stoic composure. Secretly, she prayed to Talos that her face did not color in shame.

General Tullius exhaled, pinching his fingers into his eyes and rubbing them gently. "It is done," said he. "Ulfric has his item of rally. The Moot… ah, he'll have the Moot by Sun's Height." Tullius faced her.

"And the Dragonborn is now the Stormcloaks'."

Legate Rikke had not the heart to answer him, his eyes cold stones to her stomach. Only her Nordic pride kept her eyes level with his.

None had met the Dragonborn. A rumor whittled amongst the soldiers that he had been captured with the Stormcloaks before Helgen. None of the Imperials knew his personality, his name, his origins. He was Dragonborn, legend of old, and now he was to be their enemy. The Imperials and Bretons felt little fear, heathens of Skyrim fables. But for a Nordic hero to join their enemies was an ode of bane for the Imperial Nords, who were the majority of their army. Their confidence would be shirked. Rikke too, loathe as she was to admit it, felt a cold trickle of ice bury itself deep into her stomach at the thought of him. The news was ill.

"And now we are pitted against _two _masters of the Voice."

The sentence left her tongue before she realized it was moving. Rikke blinked, alarmed at the notion. The guards noticeably reacted from behind her, nervously shuffling in their armor. They held their tongues, praise the Nine, balking the urge to whisper to each other.

Tullius scoffed through his nose. "Nordic superstition is what I'd call it."

The comment cut deeper than usual, and Rikke's temper flared. She admired her General, aye, and would fight with him until Sovngarde called to her, but his lack of acknowledgement for Nordic tradition sparked her ire. Her ceaseless patience toward him had finally come at an end, with a demoralizing defeat weighing heavily on her shoulders. She scowled at him.

"Nordic superstition or not, Stormcloak and the Dragonborn harbor a massive advantage against us, sir. Stormcloak holds a tight grip on his men, and they _do _believe he is the High King of Skyrim. He has won many battles in the past. The people of Skyrim admire his heroics.

"The Dragonborn," she rose her voice, "has killed a _dragon_, and legends or not, your men are _scared _by him. Our men are tired. The Stormcloaks are at our front, the Thalmor at our heels, and the dragons attacking us at every corner. We are losing soldiers, losing supplies, and losing allies.

"We are _losing this war,_ sir."

"Indeed you are."

Tullius, once frowning at Legate Rikke, stared above her shoulder, his knotted brow climbing high. Rikke swiveled where she stood, alarmed another had listened to their conversation. She paled and her mouth clamped shut. She didn't quite _glower_, but neither did the visitor quite_ smile._

The Thalmor nodded to them, a nigh-condescending tilt of his head, his stature towering over the Nord and Imperial. His arms were folded behind him, emerald eyes gleaming from his hood. They had never heard him enter.

The silence was mercifully brief as Tullius acknowledged the Altmer officer with a nod of his head. "Your visit is unexpected, mer."

"How woeful," the Thalmor commented, his expression not icy or warm. His smile was nonexistent and his eyes were cold-enough to challenge the tundra of Skyrim. He brushed passed Rikke without a glance, his grace unnatural to her. She glared at his back as he studied the War Map, noting the flags and pins thrusted inside the old wood.

"Is there a reason for your visit?" Tullius voice was nearly as cool as the Altmer's eyes. His own smile was professional, curt, a perfect greeting to a mer. The elf, still staring at the table, pursed his lips.

"I would think so, with your struggle in this… ah, '_war'. _Evidently, you had some difficulties, young General."

Despite the address, the Altmer's cool eyes rested on Rikke. His gaze was eerily blank as the legate's face grew hot. He had eavesdropped on their conversation, no doubt. "Losing this war" chimed in her head. Aye, he must have heard that.

Rikke trusted nothing but her tongue to remain still.

"We've had difficulties," Tullius agreed levelly, his gaze flashing to Rikke. "But the Imperial Legion will surpass it."

"Indeed?" The Thalmor's voice did not quite _coo_, but his tone prickled at Rikke's throat. He fingered one of the flags on the table, face unreadable. "A shame it hasn't been surpassed sooner."

Tullius's face twitched, eyes flaring. Before he could respond, the Altmer faced him.

"I have a proposition for you, General."

The general allowed a cold frown touch his lips. "I have no interest in allowing the Thalmor to interfere with local affairs."

Then, the Thalmor _smiled_. Altmeri expressions always escaped Rikke's fathoming, how they seemed so artificial yet so _genuine. _

"Then we share a common interest," said he. "Do listen, my friend, before you reach a decision. I assure you this one is quite _remarkable."_

* * *

**It's been too long since I've written any more chapters for this. Hopefully I will fare better in the future and continue on at a faster pace. I assure you, I have the entire plot planned and prepared; written prose, however, takes so long for me to complete. I'm also currently writing two consecutive books (one, really, I see as my biggest project, whilst the other is just a small idea I've harbored for quite a while and hope it births into something spectacular), so I've been quite slow.**

**Anyway, I've NOTICED that I have the Dragonborn in there. YES, he is a major part of the story. NO, I will not spend more time than I need to on him. YES, he's supposed to act like an idiot, and yes, the enemies are clueless about his arrogance. AND NO, HE IS NOT THE MAIN CHARACTER. I hope I've covered that as clearly as I can.**

**Criticism, even flames, is completely welcome. Give me it. I need it.**


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